Sun was going down when the last letter arrived. Knew it was coming. Heard the snick of the post box flap. Crunch of the post boy chasing his shadow up the gravel path. All the bills had come earlier in the week. No-one sends me nothing else any more, anyway.

Sat on the mat like a dead bird, that envelope. Didn't want to touch it but I knew I would. Didn't straight away, though. Turned my back on it, headed into the kitchen, took a beer. Drank it looking out across the yard at the silhouettes of the pines. Rain had started up again. Slicked down the dust and the odour of fresh earth rose up at me. Finished the beer, listened to the patter of the raindrops, watched the sky fade. Couldn't put it off any longer.

Sat at the old desk in the corner. Envelope was in a pool of warm, yellow light. Bought that lamp second hand from a library. And the letter opener. Silver. Looked like a dagger. Thought it made me classy. Used it to open all the other envelopes. Thought it would be respectful. Slit the top of the envelope and eased it open. Used the opener to draw the letter out. Left it there, in the middle of the soft glow of the lamplight.

I didn't need the last letter to know what to do. Since the first had arrived, they had begun their work on me. I was caught up in the mystery. A puzzle to solve. Tried comparing the scripts on some of them. Tried translating the fragments of dead writing trapped within their shapes. Looked up map locations, sought out newspapers in local library records. When I had enough, I even tried to put them together like a jigsaw.

All distraction.

Like a magician teasing the eye with a flourish whilst the mechanics of the illusion are worked beyond the corner of the victim's eye, the trick is seducing the mark to look the wrong way.

Then it was too late. Wormed their way into my mind, they had. Realised, just too late. Laid them out across the desk, in the end. They sat there. Couple of letters from the end. A sentence. Real short. Plain. An instruction.

Bookshelf beside the desk. Filled with smart books. Can't read them any more. Letters are too small. Too many. And these letters don't want anything else inside my head. Sit huddled in there like strange birds in a nest, mouths open. Hungry.

Second to last letter arrived. Put it in its place. Already guessed what the letters said but they made me wait for the last of them. Spent that time gathering the tools. Laid them out beside the desk. Sharp knife, length of rope, gloves, needles. So on. All that my improvisation. Many roads lead to the same place.

There they sit, in the pool of light. They are my world, now. Dusk around the house. Inside the house. Won't be back.

Tools are packed in the bag, now. My mind is the letters. Don't need to see them any more. They are me. One final thing, before I turn out the lamp forever.

Collect a handful of envelopes.